


Sunday

by Anarion



Series: Sunday Senses [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: Clothing Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Senses, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarion/pseuds/Anarion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sundays... not just another day of the week in 221B, no indeed. Sunday is John Watson's day off. And when John is off, he tends to... well... he gets off, quite frankly. An unobservant flatmate might not notice. Or care. Or find himself reacting unexpectedly. If John had an unobservant flatmate. Which he doesn't...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunday Sounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/9194.html?thread=19586538#t19586538) prompt on the shkinkmeme. I think I strayed too far from the original for a fill (no idea what a Sentient!Settee is), but it was fun. :)

 

It’s Sunday morning. Not that the days of the week matter to Sherlock per se, except for the fact that Sunday means John does not have to work. For some reason Sherlock is not ready to question just yet, Sundays are his favourite days now.

Today it is still early and John fast asleep.

Sherlock’s brain is busy watching his experiment on fly agaric, documenting the influence of smoke on the decay of human flesh and cataloguing the dirt samples from his last case. And - for another reason he does not want to think about – deducing the course of John’s yesterday's evening out. Part of his brain is ALWAYS thinking about John these days.

Sherlock stands at the book shelf in the far corner of the living room when he hears a sound from upstairs. John is waking and tossing around in the last remnants of a dream.

Sherlock tries to concentrate on the book he is looking for (John has rearranged the books again), but is distracted by the sounds of John getting up, going to he bathroom and then coming downstairs.

John appears in the door frame in his pyjama pants, shirtless, hair ruffled and brain still sleepy. He walks into the kitchen, drinks a glass of water and calls Sherlock’s name. Sherlock is frozen in the shadow of the book shelf and unable to make a sound.

John shrugs, goes over to his armchair and picks up Sherlock’s shirt, that somehow migrated from his room to the living room. Interesting.

And then he sniffs it.

Sherlock feels as if his brain just got a hiccup.

John makes a soft noise in his throat and Sherlock feels something warm moving in his belly. What is happening here?

Unfortunately his brain is still busy trying to wrap itself around the fact that John is now breathing in Sherlock’s scent deeply. So no help from there. And then he moves one hand to his groin and runs a finger along the length of his slowly growing cock.

Sherlock’s brain goes complete off-line.

John makes that soft approving noise once more, deep in his throat, an almost-hum. Again the finger moves up and down. Sherlock feels an unfamiliar twitching between his legs. Then John flattens his hand and strokes his palm along his now very impressive erection. And there is the hum Sherlock has been waiting for without knowing.

John takes the shirt, turns around and goes back upstairs.

Sherlock’s head is swimming and he has difficulties to figure out why, because his brain is still on strike. Oh! He forgot to breathe! Stupid.

His legs are a bit weak and he is shaking all over. Sitting. Yes, sitting would be good. Without a sound he drops into the nearest armchair and stares at his shaking hands lying on the armrest. Then his gaze drops to the strange pressure between his legs. He can’t remember when he last had an erection.

Ah, at least part of his brain is working again. Good. He needs to figure out what is happening to him here and why.

But he gets distracted by sounds from upstairs. John flops down on his bed, the springs softly squeaking, then leans over and rummages around in his bed table. Why can he hear everything so clearly? It takes a few seconds before Sherlock gets to the conclusion: John didn’t close his door!

Then something flips open. ‘Lube!’ Sherlock’s brain chirps in. ‘He is using lube.’

More movement as John settles into a comfortable position and then there is the humming again. Sherlock listens in amazement as his own breath goes faster in response to John’s.

It doesn’t take long until John starts moaning softly. Sherlock sits completely still, hands clenching the armrests, and listens intently. His brain is absolutely, perfectly silent.

The squeaking of the bed springs gets a distinct rhythm and John is groaning now. Sherlock notices that his hips are moving in perfect synchronisation with John’s thrusts, making small jerking motions. The soft fabric of his trousers glides along his erection, creating a soft and almost maddening friction.

He imagines himself being the one drawing these noises from John and he doesn’t notice that his right hand has started stroking the armrest.

John is getting close now, his groaning mixed with small sobs drifting down the stairs directly into Sherlock’s twitching cock. He closes his eyes and his head falls back as he gives himself up to the feeling.

Suddenly John goes entirely silent for a second and then he yells. Sherlock’s eyes fly open. Because John just yelled his name. And that is all it takes.

Something almost painful runs through Sherlock, a last jerk of his hip and a violent shiver of his body and he comes. Hard. In his trousers, without being touched once. Nails clutching the armchair. Soundless.

He gulps in big amounts of air, hearing John echoing him upstairs, both men coming down from the rush together. And yet so far apart.

After a few minutes John gets up and goes to have a shower. Sherlock sits in his chair, his brain kicking back in, trying to analyse what just happened.

What he comes up with? Not much, because his brain is still busy chanting 'John, John, John.'

God, he is in trouble!

.


	2. Sunday Sounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sundays... not just another day of the week in 221B, no indeed. Sunday is John Watson's day off. And when John is off, he tends to... well... he gets off, quite frankly. An unobservant flatmate might not notice. Or care. Or find himself reacting unexpectedly. If John had an unobservant flatmate. Which he doesn't...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in the same verse as Sunday, the story [](http://verityburns.livejournal.com/profile)[**verityburns**](http://verityburns.livejournal.com/) lovingly calls 'The brain-melter'. It was supposed to be a one-shot, but then I saw [this](http://livia_carica.livejournal.com/18967.html) amazing picture (NSFW!!!) by [](http://livia-carica.livejournal.com/profile)[**livia_carica**](http://livia-carica.livejournal.com/) and I couldn't stop myself. So now there is a second part. :)

 

Sherlock tries to open the door to 221B with fingers numb from the cold and damns himself for dashing out of the flat without his coat. But there was a lead to follow and he wanted to be back before John woke.

It is Sunday, John’s day off, and since that Sunday a few weeks back Sherlock has been hoping that something similar would happen again. He is not sure what exactly he is hoping for, but he tries to spend every waking minute of John’s free day in the flat.

The last weeks were confusing on many levels. On the one hand there are these _feelings_ he is suddenly aware of, feelings for John, feelings he doesn’t know what to do with.

On the other hand there are bodily reactions he hasn’t had for years: wet dreams and an early morning hard-on. He ignores these, as he is used to ignoring all of his body’s needs like hunger, tiredness and exhaustion. But then again, John forces him to tend to these needs sooner or later.

Because Sherlock _needs_ someone to remind him that sleep helps when he is so tired that he can’t think anymore or that food is the solution for not fainting after climbing up the stairs.

Since John doesn’t know about this special need though, he can’t tell Sherlock what he should do in this case. Maybe Sherlock should tell him, presented as a more general problem of course? John is a doctor, he would help. Maybe he would even be eager to help, who knows? He _did_ yell Sherlock’s name after all.

But then it could’ve just been a one-off and Sherlock is not ready to risk their friendship upon this inconclusive amount of data. So he hopes for a repeat that will give him more data every Sunday. 

Now he hopes that he is not too late and John not awake yet.

He finally manages to unlock the front door, walks up the steps to their flat silently and opens the door to the living room without a noise. His eyes scan the room as he enters and what he sees makes him freeze instantly.

He stares. Speechless. His brain refusing to process the sight in front of him.

Can you imagine Sherlock speechless? Well, there is only one person in the whole wide world capable of rendering the great Sherlock Holmes speechless, capable of reining his brilliant brain to a full stop – John Watson.

So here is what he sees: Said John Watson, wearing Sherlock’s coat and apart from that - nothing. Lying dropped across Sherlock’s armchair, eyes closed and one hand on his cock. His very hard cock.

Sherlock slowly, silently, softly walks a few steps closer, until he is standing behind John’s armchair. Watching. Breathing. Who knew that mere breathing could take such an effort?

He is stunned at how beautiful John looks with his face flushed, his breathing elevated and his chest heaving. Of course he has seen most of John’s body without clothing before, but never like this: naked, vulnerable, lost in his own world.

He starts drinking in all the details, the way John’s nipples stand up, the slow movement of his fingers on his cock, the soft fluttering of his eyelids and the occasional appearance of his tongue to wet his lips.

Then John bites his lip, moans softly and his free hand grabs the coat. Sherlock suddenly very, very much wants to touch. He grips the headrest instead and tries to concentrate on what John is doing to pleasure himself.

John, who is now moaning and rocking his hips and occasionally arching his back. At some point while watching Sherlock, who is looking positively flustered by now, has started pressing his groin against the armchair without even noticing.

Sherlock stares as John’s hand moves faster and he is groaning and _God this feels good_ – he suddenly realises that he has pressed his own hand against his erection and he can’t remember doing that. 

He pulls his hand away (it takes effort) and is about to grab the armchair again when John softly moans his name. Sherlock’s eyes fall close against his will and when his brain recovers from the short-term overload he sees, with horrified fascination, that his hand is back.

While breathing was an issue a few minutes ago he now seems unable to get enough air into his lungs. Interesting.

John’s hips and his hand move in a steady rhythm and he starts making small ‘Oh’ noises that go straight to Sherlock’s erection. His legs are shaking and when a small spurt of pre-cum leaks from John’s cock, his knees nearly give in. 

It takes a while for Sherlock to realise that the needy whimpers come from his own throat. His free hand shoots up and covers his mouth. Luckily John seems not to have heard it.

John is moving his hand frantically now and his moans turn into small sobs. Sherlock bites his lip to stop himself from groaning and moves his own hand faster.

Some far away part of his brain registers the heat coiling in his groin and the tingling in his fingertips and toes (wow, even his toes?) but the main part is busy with ‘Oh God, how can this feel so good? Oh God, oh God, close, I’m so close...’

And then John almost lifts off the armchair and he positively roars Sherlock’s name and Sherlock is falling, falling, falling, hand clinging to the chair to stop himself from crashing to the ground.

When he opens his eyes again, he sees John, lying spent on the armchair, a small puddle of come on his belly, eyes closed, still breathing hard, his cock slowly softening and Sherlock is filled with such a longing that he cannot stop himself from whispering ‘John’ under his own still ragged breath.

John slowly opens his eyes and smiles at him, which confuses Sherlock a lot. Shouldn’t he be angry? Because Sherlock is pretty sure that what he just did is against every etiquette one can think of.

But John is smiling. And then he says, speech still slightly slurred, “So. You like watching.”

Sherlock has to close his eyes for a moment and remember the breathing part in order to not faint this instant. Because this? Too much. 

When he opens his eyes again, John has moved. He is standing right in front of Sherlock, completely naked, the coat shed on the armchair, and God, does he look perfect.

His next question knocks Sherlock’s recently recovered composure out again.

“What about touching?”


	3. Sunday Touches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fic for [](http://livia-carica.livejournal.com/profile)[**livia_carica**](http://livia-carica.livejournal.com/)'s amazing [picture](http://livia-carica.livejournal.com/20316.html) (NSFW!!!) and the follow-up to [Sunday Sights.](http://anarion.livejournal.com/15193.html)  
>  After 'Sunday Sights' I thought that this definitely needed another part, which I would write if Livia drew another pic. And she did!!! So my formerly one-shot now has three parts. Deal with it. :P

 

_‘So. You like watching. What about touching?’_

Sherlock wakes with a start, pulse hammering in his ears, mind still caught up in the dream, cock achingly hard.

The way he woke up every morning since last Sunday.

He closes his eyes and tries to relax. Thinks about the aftermath.

After John had left the room, it took Sherlock a few attempts to get his wobbly legs to do the same. He went to his room and cleaned himself up, listening to John in the shower, and went back to the living room to flop down on the sofa.

He waited for John to come back, trying to look nonchalant while his heart was racing. But when John came back, he just smiled his normal, friendly, _harmless_ smile and asked, “Tea?”

Sherlock still cannot understand. What is John thinking, why are they not talking about this? John _always_ wants to talk about things.

He opens his eyes. Usually he has calmed enough to go about his day by now. Something is different today.

Oh. It’s Sunday.

~°~

It’s five o’clock in the morning, John will still be sleeping for at least three more hours. Something is nagging at his brain, irritating like a splinter under the skin. Something that happened yesterday. It didn’t seem important at the time. What was it?

And then the image hits him. John coming into the living room to say good night, wearing his stripy jumper. And then taking off the jumper and dropping it over his armchair before leaving the room.

John _never_ leaves his clothes lying around in the flat just like that. He is a very tidy person.

Suddenly it all makes sense: John, Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock, John’s jumper. _Oh God!_

Sherlock presses a hand on his twitching cock and tries to get his breathing back under control. When he stands up, he finds that his legs actually tremble.

He slowly walks over to the sitting room and watches the very innocent looking jumper like a bomb that might go off any second. Then he takes a deep breath, makes a decision and grabs the jumper.

He sheds his dressing gown and his shirt, but can’t get himself to drop his pants as well already. He pulls John’s jumper over his head and drinks in John’s scent.

Then he sits down in the armchair and questioningly eyes the bulge in his pants. Now what?

He tentatively cups it with his hand and squeezes lightly. Mm, that doesn’t feel so bad. He tries it again, with a little bit more pressure this time. Yes, better.

He recalls the image of John. Naked. Maybe this works better without pants? He pulls them down and squeezes again, this time adding a little rub. Oh, definitely better naked.

And now?

He tried masturbating when he was younger (Of course he did. He tries everything.), but it did not seem worth the effort and he lost interest in it. Now he wishes he hadn’t.

His brain is reaching for control and he feels himself losing the momentum and with it his erection.

Suddenly there is another hand covering his, gently pressing. John.

Sherlock tries to open his eyes but can’t, he tries to say something but finds himself incapable of formulating words. The only thing he manages is an open-mouthed moan.

His brain desperately scrambles for higher ground but gets drowned in a flash flood of new information: the feeling of John’s hand on his skin, John’s smell, the sound of John’s breathing, John guiding his hand, John hardening his grip, John, John, John.

Drowning in John is good, it’s peaceful and ecstatic at the same time and oh yes, this is so much better.

“Oh God!”

Sherlock’s head falls back and he arches into their combined touch. John is setting the pace and Sherlock feels himself rolling his hips to meet the friction of their hands and this feels like he is flying, so he grabs the armrest with his free hand to keep a grip on reality.

His fingertips touch the hole he burned into the cover a few weeks back with his acid experiment, John was furious, and where did he put the vials with the...

John’s free hand takes his own tenderly and with that small gesture effectively shuts out Sherlock’s brain again.

He can once more concentrate on John’s touch, his hand is moving, his thumb is suddenly flicking over Sherlock’s glans, making him yell and his hips jerk. John is pressing his hand on the armrest so hard that his knuckles are probably white.

Sherlock hears himself make the needy whimpers again – no wait, this time it’s John.

Then the pressure of John’s hand on his cock lifts. _Oh no, I can’t do this on my own, please don’t leave me alone in this, I don’t even like to masturbate, I can’t, it’s not good..._

John’s finger slowly strokes his balls, which very effectively stops his panic at once. He feels John’s hand shake before it is removed again and he realises that John very, very much _wants_ to touch, wants to take over, wants to show Sherlock what he can do to him (holding himself back, that’s why he is crushing Sherlock’s other hand), but even more he wants to _look_.

Sherlock remembers last Sunday, how incredible it felt to watch John fall apart. Now John wants to watch and he gave Sherlock the means to make John feel what he experienced last week.

He imagines looking down on the two of them from above, himself stretched out in the armchair, John crouched down beside it, watching Sherlock get off, the only contact between them now their two clasped hands.

He can feel John’s body rocking slightly, he is touching himself, his ragged breath and moans reaching Sherlock like a tidal wave – growing stronger with each stroke.

And he realises that he can do this, not for his own benefit, but for John’s.

So he keeps stroking, flicking his thumb, as John did, every now and then, rocking his hips and moaning; clinging to John’s hand and his groans and it actually feels good, oh so good.

He can feel the orgasm building inside him, he is so close, but something is holding him back, it almost hurts now. _John, help me, please, I can’t, so close, I don’t know how, John..._

And then John suddenly sobs, “Sherlock, oh fuck, Sherlock!” and a jolt of... something... shoots through his body, he arches off the chair, his only contact to reality John’s hand in his and...

“I’m coming. Oh, I’m coming. John!”

... everything explodes in white light.

He can hear John echo his cry and it feels almost like coming again.

He slowly returns to reality when John starts moving, lets go of his hand and there is a rustling noise, but Sherlock can’t move yet.

John leans closer – what is he doing? – then Sherlock feels dry lips pressed on his forehead, hears John whisper, “Thank you.”

When he manages to open his eyes, he is alone. Was that just a dream?

 


End file.
